Puzzle Pieces
by DracoPendragon
Summary: Sherlock gets a puzzle, and his brain isn't doing very well on it. Thankfully, Jim is quite good at jigsaws. Mentions of drugs, will continue to update warnings as story develops (if needed)
1. Puzzle Pieces

Jim stood in the doorway, looking at the consulting detective, who was surrounded by small puzzle pieces. 'Come to bed, Sherlock,' he sighed. 'You can leave that for tomorrow.'

'Jim, this isn't something I just can "leave for tomorrow",' replied Sherlock sourly, using air quotation marks as if to support his point. 'It's pivotal to a case; if I don't figure it out, it's like letting the killer get away scot-free.'

Moving closer, the consulting criminal looked around at the spread of pieces. 'You haven't even separated the edge pieces, everyone knows that's what you do first,' he noted. He settled down in a space close to Sherlock that was devoid of jigsaw pieces, and looked at what had been managed so far. 'Look,' he said, picking up a corner piece. 'You haven't even got this out from the rest.'

Sherlock plucked the piece from his hands before placing it beside him. 'I didn't pick it out because I didn't have any others to connect it to.'

Rolling his eyes, Jim took two more edge pieces and connected them together, before adding them to the slightly less than half finished piece on the floor before them. 'You don't mind if I help you, do you?'

Sherlock waved his hands at the pieces. 'Help yourself,' he said in surrender. 'I do require some assistance.'

They sat in silence for a while, working on the puzzle. Then; 'Are you wearing my pyjamas?'

Jim looked down at the grey T-shirt and white bottoms he had on. 'I found them in your wardrobe. Besides, you barely use them, that much is obvious. Do you mind?'

'No, no, not at all,' assured the detective as he worked on fixing connected parts of the jigsaw together. 'It does seem a step down from your usual suits though.'

A hum of agreement was Jim's reply to the statement. 'Comfortable though,' he remarked.

Silence fell upon the two men again as they worked, but neither of them minded, preferring to work together without speaking. Jim watched as Sherlock's hands moved swiftly over the pieces, working frantically to piece them together.

After ten minutes or so, the detective let out a loud growl of frustration and threw down the piece in his hand, which sent a few of the pieces near its impact scattering.

'Why can't I do this?' he said.

'You need sleep, dear,' Jim cooed comfortingly. 'Go to bed, I'll finish this for you.'

He continued to move the pieces around, fitting them together. Sherlock didn't move. After a moment, he turned to look at the other man, who had a confused expression on his face. 'What?'

'Why are you here? Why are you helping me? It doesn't make any sense.'

'Things rarely make perfect sense to us,' Jim commented. 'And as for why I'm here… who knows?' he shrugged before returning to the problem at hand.

'You were bored. Why not kill someone?'

'Day off.'

'Right.' There was something else he was going to say, Jim could tell. He continued with the puzzle patiently, letting Sherlock formulate a sentence.

'Would you… I mean, I know it's unprofessional and everything but you already took my pyjamas and I was thinking you need sleep too, so-'

'Just get to the point already,' Jim said.

'Come to bed with me,' blurted Sherlock. 'Leave the puzzle until tomorrow, and come to bed.'

He considered it for a moment, before slowly rising to his feet. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes,' replied the taller, a little too quickly, as though he was forcing the answer out before he could change his own mind.

'Alright then, lead the way,' replied Jim.

He followed Sherlock to the bedroom, and watched as the detective threw himself onto the bed, not bothering to change. He moved to sit on the bed, shifting the covers so he could wriggle under them. They were soft, and reminded him of something comforting from his childhood, something he had not remembered in a while. He watched as Sherlock did the same, neither of them exchanging words during the process. Then, when they had stilled, both facing each other in the centre of the bed, Jim moved his hand cautiously to trace Sherlock's defined, porcelain cheekbones gently, looking closely for any signs that the gesture was uninvited. Having seen none, he let his hand wander to trail over the pale, velvet lips of the detective's. He felt as Sherlock inched closer, and was hit with warm puffs of air as the other man breathed beside him. Jim moved forward too, until they were so close their lips were almost touching.

'Jim, I-'

'Shh, Sherlock,' whispered Moriarty in reply before he moved even closer, fusing their lips together. Sherlock was frozen but Jim didn't mind, moving his fingers to wrap into the curls of the detective's mussed up hair, moving his lips in an attempt to gain some response. He pulled back after a short while, and retreated back to his side of the bed.

'Goodnight, Sherlock.'

There was a pause that bordered on lengthy before he was granted a reply. 'Goodnight, Jim.'


	2. Breakfast

Jim woke up to the smell of tea wafting in from the living room of 221B. He twisted in his sheets to look at Sherlock, who was still asleep. He looked almost vulnerable; open in a way that Jim had never seen him before.

Reaching out a hand, Jim slowly shook him awake. 'Sherlock,' he said quietly.

Shocked out of his slumber, the bewildered detective writhed around in the covers. 'Wha-what?' he blinked wildly.

'Morning dear,' cooed Jim. 'Sleep well?'

'Jim,' sighed Sherlock in reply, visibly relaxing as his eyes met those of the other man's. He trailed his fingertips gently over the bare skin of Jim's arm, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

'Shall we have breakfast?' asked the consulting criminal. He decided to let Sherlock decide, both the speed and intensity of their relationship, and when they got out of bed; he was content either way.

Sherlock considered for a moment before replying. 'Yes, let's.'

They climbed out of bed at their respective sides, both of them fluid and smooth in their movements. Jim stood by the door, waiting for Sherlock to join him, which happened a few seconds later. Almost unconsciously, he reached out to take a hold of the detective's pale, slender hand with his own, gently guiding him along the corridor to the kitchen.

'I see Mrs Hudson's set out your morning tea,' remarked the less dressed of the two.

'Mrs Hudson?' questioned Sherlock as he gazed upon the cup of tea that was cooling slowly on the table by his chair. 'Doesn't it just appear?'

'Dear me, Sherlock.'

Sherlock pulled away from his touch and gestured to the chair Jim knew John usually occupied, intending for him to sit in it. However, Jim dismissed the offer with a slight shake of the head and settled himself on the floor amidst the scattered pieces from the day before, studying them silently.

He could feel Sherlock's gaze on him, but didn't make the effort to waver his attention from the puzzle before him. Footsteps drew closer to him, and halted as they approached his right.

'You're staring,' Jim pointed out nonchalantly. He picked up one of the pieces and studied it intently for a few seconds before connecting it to another one from the cluster of finished puzzle. 'Tell me more about the case?'

'Once completed, the puzzle will be an invaluable clue as to solving the mystery of the disappearing diamonds of South Africa. International case of Mycroft's, very top secret,' explained the detective, with an air of boredom.

'Oh come on, you can trust me,' Jim smiled crookedly as he worked at the jigsaw.

Sherlock took another sip of his tea, looking down at the other man. 'I thought you wanted breakfast.'

Jim made a humming noise of noncommittal. 'I'm sure breakfast can wait.' He looked up at Sherlock, who looked apprehensive. 'Come on, ask away.'

'This case has nothing to do with you, correct?' came the blurted question.

'Correct.'

'Good good.' Another sip of tea. 'What are we going to say if Mrs Hudson comes up and sees you?'

'Tell her the truth,' replied the criminal simply. 'It was my day off, I came to see you, we ended up kissing, I stayed the night. We can provide a demonstration, if need be.'

'Right. Yes, that should work. She might take some coaxing over to the idea though, but I can sort it.' Jim listened to the retreat of padded footsteps as Sherlock went back to the kitchen. He listened as cupboard doors were opened and closed.

'There isn't much in, I'm afraid. Unless you want some pickled fingers.'

Jim temporarily looked up from the puzzle before him to see the other man holding out a jar of fat stubbly fingers immersed in what he supposed was brine. 'An experiment of yours?'

'Nothing special,' Sherlock waved away the conversation starter, but Jim could tell he wanted to talk.

'Tell you what,' he said, rising up from his seat. 'Why don't you tell me about it over a cup of tea for both of us? We can finish the puzzle after and get dinner if you want.'

'That… that works,' replied Sherlock as he went to replace the jar. Or at least that's what Jim assumed the detective was doing, he was concentrating almost fully on the puzzle again.

He heard the sound of water being poured into a kettle as he joined two more pieces together, and he had managed to put together a small chunk of the jigsaw before the kettle started to whistle. He got up and sat in John's chair, as opposed to Sherlock's as he had done after the court trial. A cup of tea on a saucer was offered to him as Sherlock passed him to sit down, and he blew the surface before taking a sip, revelling in the way Sherlock swallowed obviously as Jim's lips covered the rim of the cup as he drank.

'So,' he said shortly, placing both cup and saucer down on the table at the side of the chair momentarily. 'Tell me about this experiment.'


	3. The Final Product

After they had finished their morning tea, Sherlock and Jim returned to the puzzle on the floor. It took them just over an hour to finally finish piecing it together, and they both looked down at it inquisitively when they had.

'Well,' remarked Jim. 'This is new.'

'Yes,' replied Sherlock. He turned to look at the man next to him. 'And you're sure this has nothing to do with you?'

Shaking his head in denial, Jim replied: 'I promise it had nothing to do with me.

'I think I'd better call Mycroft.'

Jim stayed by the puzzle as the detective called his brother, trying to figure out what it could mean. It was an ornate stained glass image of a diamond encrusted crown, and it took only a short while for Jim to fathom a few theories about its meaning.

'Mycroft, I've solved it.' Moriarty listened as Sherlock talked on the phone, half concentrating on what was being said, half studying the puzzle.

A long pause.

'No, this is important. You need to see it.'

The pause was shorter this time.

'See you then.' Sherlock hung up and turned to Jim. 'He said he'll be around in about five to ten minutes.'

'Would you like me to leave while he's here?' he knew what Sherlock was worried about, understood it; whatever was going on between them would be obvious, and would no doubt lead to awkward questions neither of them were willing to tackle at that point in time.

'No, no no, you don't have to leave,' assured the taller of the two as he watched Jim get up from the floor and move to the window. 'If you like, you can just stay in my bedroom. Get dressed for dinner.'

'So dinner's a definite, no matter what your brother says?' asked Moriarty as he pulled aside the curtains to give himself a clearer view of the street outside.

'Mycroft doesn't control me.'

'I never said that,' Jim pointed out.

'You implied it.'

'Not consciously.' He looked out of the window, waiting for a black car to drive up.

They stayed in silence for a while, until Jim saw the vehicle pull up in front of the apartment and Mycroft Holmes step out of it.

'Well, I'd best be off,' he said as he turned and headed to the bedroom as the sound of the door being opened and closed came from the hallway below.

His arm was grabbed, and he turned around to face the detective who had taken hold of it.

'Jim, thank you for helping me,' Sherlock said quietly. 'I know Mycroft wouldn't appreciate it but I do and…' He moved to quickly place a kiss on Jim's lips before letting his arm drop and leaning back so he was a distance away.

The consulting criminal nodded silently as he heard Mycroft enter, and made him way to the bedroom.


	4. Fake

**Slight change of POV in this chapter, just because I felt it was needed.**

* * *

Sherlock turned to face his brother as the other man walked into the room. He watched as Mycroft sniffed at the air before looking at the puzzle on the floor, as if there was no one else in the living room alongside it.

'I see,' he said as he moved closer, never taking his eyes off the interconnected pieces. 'Any ideas?'

'A few,' admitted Sherlock, 'but I wanted to let you have a look before I said anything.'

Mycroft went to stoop down for a closer inspection, but stopped after a moment's consideration.

'How's the diet going?' teased the younger of the two brothers.

'My diet is going fine, Sherlock,' came the sighed reply. 'How is our dear friend Jim?'

'Jim?' asked Sherlock, acting innocent.

Mycroft threw his brother a look. 'Jim Moriarty. He was here last night, and this morning. Did you really think you could hide it from me, brother?'

Sherlock looked down. 'How did you know?'

'There's a smell of cologne in the air, but it isn't overbearing so I would assume it's had time to diffuse and mellow, meaning it's been here for a while. There's an empty cup of tea by John's chair, but I know he's with Mary and hasn't been back here in the past two days since I gave you the case. Also, his chair looks recently sat on, due to the depression in the centre where the gravity pressing down has been increased. But again, he hasn't been here. Your clients don't sit on John's chair, and there are very few people who would come and visit you if not for assistance-'

'You included,' said Sherlock snidely.

'Business is business, brother mine,' replied Mycroft as he looked around. 'The bedroom?'

'He's not doing any harm, Mycroft.'

'I don't want him compromising the case, Sherlock.'

'He won't,' replied the younger defensively, standing so he was at full height but still just shorter than his brother.

After studying him gravely, Mycroft backed away. 'He had better not.' He turned back to the puzzle. 'What have you deduced?'

'The missing diamonds are fake. They were stolen, by a "good Samaritan" of sorts, I suppose, to bring the people's attention to it.'

'And how did you figure that out?'

'Is it not obvious, brother?' Sherlock asked incredulously. 'The picture is of a stained-glass image of a diamond. Stained _glass_, Mycroft. A diamond envisaged in glass, surely a sign that the missing ones are fake. And also, look at this corner,' he said, pointing it out to his brother.

'What is it?'

'A signature; "Rev46",' he replied as he went to open John's laptop. He logged on – John's password was so very obvious – and Googled the signature. 'A quick internet search for said term brings up nothing but physics revision pages, which doesn't quite come into correlation with our discovery. Obviously not that then. So what could it be? Separate the "Rev" from the "46" and you get directions.'

'The Book of Revelations, chapter four, verse six,' thought Mycroft.

'Exactly,' cried Sherlock as he went to his bookcase and pulled out an old, leather-bound bible. '"Before the throne, there was a sea of glass, like crystal. And in the midst of the throne", et cetera, ad nauseum, you get the point. "A sea of glass, like crystal?" These missing diamonds aren't diamonds at all, they're cheap, silicon dioxide knockoffs.'

'Very well done, brother,' replied Mycroft, face neutral. 'I shall inform the South African government, see if we can't aid in the recovery of the real treasures.'

Sherlock watched as his brother turned to leave, intending on going to see Jim. He was halted by his name being called from the door.

'Oh, and Sherlock?'

'What is it, Mycroft?'

'Do be careful,' said the elder brother lowly. 'Caring is not an advantage, especially not when it concerns someone like him.'

'I know, I know, you've said it all before,' replied the shorter. 'Now go, get out. I have things to be doing.'

With one last meaningful look at his brother, Mycroft Holmes left the room, and Sherlock listened out for his footsteps all the way down the stairs and out of the vicinity, not moving until the sound of the door to the apartment echoed through the rooms and hallways. Then, he went back to his bedroom, where Jim had been, and hopefully still was.

* * *

**The full quote from Revelations 4:6 is:**  
**'Before the throne there was a sea of glass, like crystal.**  
**And in the midst of the throne, and around the throne, were four living creatures full of eyes in front and in back.' (from the King John's Bible)**

**It took me a while to think of an idea, so I hope you liked it. I'm pretty proud of it, so there.**


	5. Trust

Jim waited for a while, wondering what to do while Sherlock talked to Mycroft. He decided to get changed, and went to get his suit from where he had hung it up in the wardrobe amongst Sherlock's own clothes the night before. Then, when he was dressed, he looked around the room, never touching anything. It was different, so very unlike his own apartment, which was blank and impersonal, so much so that if anyone was to visit they would not believe it was the residence of any other person.

He looked at the picture of Sherlock and Mycroft together from when they were young, and smiled sadly. He had never had that sort of relationship with his own brother. But that was in the past, buried and forgotten about in light of newer, more exciting events.

* * *

He had been halfway through reciting the periodic table, using the framed one on Sherlock's wall as reference, when the detective walked in. 'Mycroft left?'

Sherlock nodded in reply and sat on the edge of the bed. Sensing that something was the matter, Jim sat beside him, so they were almost touching.

'What did he say?'

An audible exhale was issued before his answer was. 'He doesn't trust you. Thinks you'll compromise my judgement, or interfere with the case in some other way.'

'And will I?' He wanted the truth, wanted to see if Sherlock trusted him. Trust. Such a fragile, delicate little thing. So powerful. You could bring a whole nation to its knees with such a formidable weapon. That being, of course, if the nation in question granted you theirs.

'I would hope you would not interfere further,' replied Sherlock after a lengthy pause in which both of them deliberated. 'And I suppose you could sway my judgement in some minor cases, but maybe that would be for the best.'

'Do you trust me?' Jim asked, moving his hand so it rested gently on the detective's leg. Sherlock eyed it before answering.

'I suppose I… I don't know.'

Jim got up and went over to the bedside cabinet, where he knew Sherlock kept a spare gun in case John had his own one on person and left Sherlock with nothing to fire at when the wall had it coming. He checked it was loaded and aimed it at the detective's head, clicking off the safety.

'I could pull the trigger right now. Kill you. God knows it would make my life a lot easier. Do you trust me not to?'

Sherlock got up from the bed and walked calmly towards his consulting counterpart. 'I trust you not to kill me, yes.'

'Why so sure?'

'Because you need me, and I need you. You've had so many chances to kill me, and yet you haven't. In fact, I don't think you ever intended to. I think it was all a game, just a game. All to impress me.'

He was close now, but Moriarty's grip on the gun never relented. He said nothing as Sherlock moved ever further, staying silent even when the detective breached his personal space and began moving his right hand from Jim's left shoulder down his arm to where the gun was still pointing at him.

'And now that you know you've achieved your goal,' he said, voice low as his hand reached the slide of the gun. 'You have no reason to pull that trigger.' Their lips met in the middle, producing in Jim's head the same chemical reactions that pulling the trigger would have. Sherlock pulled the gun gently away, Jim's finger easing from the trigger as he did so.

The kiss lasted the time it took to make sure the weapon was no longer in the picture, then Sherlock pulled back slowly, enough so that his words could still be heard as he whispered them. 'I trust you.'

Jim made a small humming noise of approval. 'Shall we have dinner now?'

'Let's,' replied Sherlock.


	6. Dinner

Jim and Sherlock walked side by side, hands loosely clasped together. Jim was leading the other man, although he guessed the detective had at least an inkling of where they were headed. He knew every street in London, after all.

They eventually arrived at their destination, and Jim held open the door for Sherlock as he walked through. He too walked in, looking for any sign from the detective that he had picked the wrong place.

'Nice choice,' commended Sherlock. 'Not too many people, yet enough to not be easily identified, which could lead to questioning; the staff look hygienic and professional, the facilities are clean too. I'm guessing from the gathered that it's mainly for the richer part of society, and those who can afford to look at fine décor whilst they eat.'

'I thought you'd appreciate it,' mused Jim as they were approached by a waitress. 'Table for two, please.'

They were escorted to their table, which was nestled in towards the back of the establishment, and given menus. When asked if they would like drinks, Jim answered first with: 'Coke, if you don't mind.'

After having quirked an eyebrow at the order, Sherlock asked for 'Water, please. From a bottle, not the tap. I'd rather not catch some form of cholera from the sewers your water line is directed to.'

After the waitress had left their table with their drink orders and a look of offence, Sherlock turned to face Jim. 'Was that wrong?'

'No, no, not at all,' assured Jim in his silken Irish accent as he looked over the menu. 'Know what you're having?'

'I think I'll avoid the steak; although they look professional, I suspect the chef doesn't know the difference between medium rare and rare, which might cause problems. The rice sounds nice, as long as they've made sure to cook it properly. Bacteria and all.' He sighed. 'What are you having?'

'Spaghetti carbonara,' came the reply as Jim continued to flick absentmindedly through the food list. 'You can never really go wrong with pasta, and it's simple but tastes divine.'

'Really? I would have thought for you to take something difficult, dramatic, with flair at least.'

'When it comes to food, I've discovered that simple is almost always preferable,' shrugged Jim as he lay the menu down to look at the detective opposite him.

A hum of agreement was his answer as Sherlock copied his movements until they were sat regarding each other. The waitress appeared then, to deliver the drinks they had ordered, and placed them on the table before asking if they were ready to order.

Broken out of his stupor, Sherlock turned to look at her. 'I'll have the chicken parmesan with fresh potatoes, and my partner will have the spaghetti carbonara, please,' he said, mindful of the way he spoke.

'Right away,' replied the waitress with a smile that was obviously forced before she left them.

Jim took a sip of his Coke, watching as his actions were imitated by the man before him. He felt his lip curve into a smile, but it didn't feel maleficent in any way. 'So, what now?'

'What?'

'I mean, you solved the puzzle, now what? Where do you go from here, with your detective ways?'

'Oh, I suppose Mycroft will find me something else. Or George. No, wait… Graham? No… Inspector Lestrade, anyway.' He took another sip. 'What about you? Don't you have a criminal web to run?'

'I do,' replied Jim with a tilt of the head. 'But I have people to take care of it for me. I can disappear and disassociate from it easily.'

'And are you going to?'

'It depends on what I would gain from doing so.'

They fell silent again, both wrapped in their own thoughts until the food was brought to them. 'Thank you,' Sherlock smiled at the member of staff, a different one this time, as he left.

'That looks nice,' said Jim conversationally as they compared their meals.

'So does yours,' replied Sherlock. He partly cut up his meal into bite-size pieces and took one of them onto his fork before placing it in his mouth. Jim watched him intently, studying the look on his face as the flavour hit him.

'Any good?'

Sherlock hummed in contentment, and continued eating as Jim took his first bite, relishing in the familiar taste. They sat in a comfortable quiet, lisening to the sounds of life in the restaurant around them, not speaking until both plates had been cleared of food.

'How was it?'

'It was delightful,' Sherlock answered truthfully.

'Shall we have dessert?' Jim asked.

'Let's skip the rest of the meal and go back to Baker Street,' came the reply.

Jim smirked then, and signalled for a waiter to ask for the bill.


	7. Dancing

After having gazed upon the sky outside after exiting the restaurant, Sherlock and Moriarty decided to get a cab back to Baker Street. They sat together in the back quietly, content on not talking and instead exchanging glances every so often. Once the cab had arrived at its intended destination – which, Jim thought, could have been made shorter if they had just taken that diversion – they got out of the back and Sherlock wordlessly gave the driver a twenty pound note before the doors were slammed shut and it was on its way.

Jim watched as the detective dug his key from his pocket and placed it in the lock before turning it and granting them access to the warmth that the inside of the house bestowed upon them, contrasting with the chilling cold from outside. 'I assume you plan on staying the night again?' he was asked.

'I find here to be so much more accommodating than my own little lodgings,' Jim replied, watching as Sherlock began to ascend the staircase to the rooms above. He followed suit, aged stairs creaking in protest under his feet as he moved.

'When will John be back?' he asked conversationally.

'Oh, sometime soon, I expect,' Sherlock replied as he entered the living room and began to disrobe his outer layers, taking off his scarf and coat. Jim surprised him then, by taking hold of his arm and swirling his around so they were facing, before pulling him a little bit closer and placing one hand on his waist. The other hand he moved so that he and Sherlock were palm to palm, the look of bewilderment on the detective's face making him chuckle to himself quietly.

'What?' came the question, sounding so simple-minded coming from such a smart man, because surely Jim had displayed all the needed signs for him to figure out what he wanted. What Jim wanted to do.

'Dance with me,' he whispered. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the request but said nothing, relaxing instead into the touch, and Jim took that as consent to begin walking them around slowly in circles whilst a silent symphony played on around them. He led them around the apartment, through the kitchen and the hallway and the bathroom and the bedroom, spinning in small, tight circles with precise footing, sometimes toying with the danger of falling, tripping over an inconveniently placed chair or some other misplaced object. The danger, although small, sent small shivers up their spines, and millions of messages were conveyed through their actions that words would never fully enunciate.

They moved back into the living room again, careful to avoid tripping over the furniture, or the books that lay strewn around in organised disorder. Jim increased the speed, but Sherlock kept up, and they twirled around until both felt light in the head and they collapsed in a heap on the nearest piece of furniture, which happened to be the couch.

'What are we doing?' Sherlock asked inquisitively.

'Dancing.'

'Why?'

'Why not?' Jim shrugged as he sat up and made his vision focus on the pronounced features of the other man with him. 'Not everything requires an ulterior motive, my dear.'

'I suppose you're right,' Sherlock said, shifting so their legs were brushing together. 'But then, I supposed it was different for you.'

'It's different for both of us,' replied Jim. 'We're anomalies, Sherlock. We're meant for each other,' he said quietly, remembering some of the first words he had said to the detective, even though technically, it wasn't him saying it but someone he had strapped a bomb to and made read from a pager. But that was insignificant. He reached out tentatively to trace his finger gently over Sherlock's highly defined cheekbones before pulling back.

'We should dance again. I need practice for John and Mary's wedding.'

'The wedding,' Jim said, eyes fixed on his hands, which were now clasped on his lap.

'You should come,' Sherlock said abruptly. 'Even if only for one dance.'

'Maybe,' he shrugged. 'If Johnny-boy is willing to let it happen, then I could perhaps pop in.'

'I can arrange it with him,' Sherlock said. He moved even closer, until there was nothing separating them but the clothes upon their bodies, and pressed their lips together.

Jim never got tired of tasting the detective on his tongue, and accepted the kiss willingly, letting Sherlock have the control, even though they both knew it was him who was calling the shots. He was just trying to behave. For now.

The door slammed open, but neither of them pulled apart.

'Oh, bloody hell,' said John Watson. 'What's going on?'


	8. John and Mary

Jim groaned as he reluctantly pulled away from the detective he had been kissing just as John Watson walked into the room and Sherlock addressed him. 'Ah, John. How lovely to see you again.'

'Sherlock, would you mind telling me what he is doing here?' John asked, pointing at Moriarty, who was still sat beside Sherlock on the couch. 'I thought he was dead.'

'A mere technicality,' Jim offered.

'So you mean to tell me that neither of you actually died on that rooftop?'

'Obviously not, John,' Sherlock said as he looked around. 'Where's Mary?'

'She's-she's just downstairs,' replied John before he looked between the two other men. 'Am I missing something?' he asked, turning to Sherlock. 'Neither of you died two years ago even though the whole country believes you did, I go away for the week and come back to find you snogging on the couch!'

The detective thought for a while. 'Er… nope. Not missing anything. What do you think, Jim?'

'Well he missed the case,' pointed out the criminal.

'The case!' Sherlock started at the mention. 'Oh, it was brilliant. Very clever too, and-'

'I don't want to hear about the case, I want to know why I found you kissing your arch enemy who was supposed to be dead!'

'John?' came a voice from the staircase. Jim assumed it was Mary's. 'John are you alright? I heard shouting.' There was the sound of footsteps moving upwards and then into the room walked a small woman with short blonde hair. She looked startled upon seeing Moriarty. 'Oh. I wasn't aware we had company.'

'Jim, meet Mary Morstan. John's fiancée,' Sherlock said, waving a hand between them both in introduction.

'Pleasure,' said Jim as he extended out a hand. Mary moved to shake it, but was stopped as John took hold of her arm gently.

Jim rolled his eyes. 'Oh come on, John. If Sherlock can trust me, why can't you?'

Mary pulled away from John's touch gently and moved forward to shake Moriarty's hand. 'Nice to meet you.'

'You too,' Jim smiled, trying to act civilised. First impressions and all. And oh, the impressions he got from that woman.

'They were kissing. Sherlock and his arch nemesis were kissing. Why am I, again, being the only one reacting like a human being?'

'John, it's Sherlock's choice who he kisses,' Mary said logically.

'Yes, but who picks their mortal enemy?'

'Interesting people,' Jim mused. He turned to Sherlock. 'Do you want some tea?'

'Yes, please,' came the answer. 'Same as this morning.'

'This morning?' John asked, face an open book showing only surprise. 'Did he… did he spend the night here?'

'Yes,' replied the detective bluntly. 'So what?'

'Leave you people alone for a week and everything goes mad,' John grumbled.

Jim managed to keep a straight face, only just. He turned then to Mary. 'Would you like to come and help me make tea?'

She looked a little taken aback by the request, but acquiesced anyway. The went to the kitchen together, and Jim filled the kettle while she got out the teabags.

'I know you're hiding something,' he remarked casually. He stretched out to catch the pot full of tea bags that had slipped from her grip and smiled as he handed them back. 'Careful now, we don't want any accidents.' She still looked shocked. 'Oh don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone. Where's the fun in that?'

'What are you going to do?' she asked quietly. Sherlock and John were talking in the living room, and it was unlikely that their conversation was to be overheard.

'Nothing,' Jim smiled as the kettle turned itself off. 'I know. Strange, isn't it? I'll let you live your life with Johnny-boy, and I wish you both the best.'

'Why?'

'Blackmail is so very old-fashioned,' he replied. He poured the water into an assortment of cups – which he checked were definitely clean – and watched as she added the teabags. 'Shall we take these to our partners then?'

Mary nodded, looking a mixture of confused and scared. She took John's cup and her own before leaving the room. Jim stayed to get some milk, but discovered there was none. He took the other cups and walked back into the room.

'There's no milk,' he said.

'I'll go and get some,' John said calmly. 'I need some space.'

'I'll come with you,' Mary insisted. 'After we finish our tea. Then we won't be intruding.'

'Oh no, please,' Jim and Sherlock said simultaneously. 'Stay as long as you like.'

Despite the invitation, John and Mary both drank their tea and left, promising to bring milk the next morning. Sherlock turned to Jim after they had gone. 'I think that went quite well.'

Jim hummed in agreement. 'Shall we go to bed?'

The detective looked at his half-finished cup of tea. 'Why not?'


	9. Clothes

**A/N: Crap this is kinda late I know I'm so sorry I just got distracted with school and personal issues and stuff but hey here you go you might get another chapter tomorrow too to make up for it if I can be bothered and I'm not too busy so yeah whoo here you go anyway**

* * *

The next morning, Jim was woken again. Someone was shaking his arm, and he groaned and moved away so that the hand touching him could no longer reach him.

'Jim, we should get up now.'

'Don't want to,' whined the criminal into his pillow.

'Why are you so temperamental? I'd have thought you were eager to start the day with some form of illegal activity.'

'I'm not temperamental,' Jim shot back. 'I just don't like being woken up.'

'You woke me up yesterday, I thought I'd repay the favour.'

'Payment not accepted.' He didn't struggle as the blankets were pulled away from his face and his cheek was kissed by warm lips.

'What about a different form of payment?' Sherlock whispered into his ear.

Jim turned in the sheets to look at the detective curiously. 'You've gotten brave, haven't you?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Yes you do,' he countered as he removed himself from the confines of the blanket that had been wrapped around his frame. He reluctantly got out of the bed, and walked barefoot across the cool, wooden floor to the wardrobe in which his suit hung. He could feel Sherlock watching him, but said nothing as he pulled out the hanger his clothes were on and studied the fabric. 'My suit's dirty,' he frowned. 'You don't mind if I go and fetch some things from my own apartment today, do you?'

'Of course not.' A pause, and then the question Jim had expected. 'Can I come with you?'

Jim mocked thinking about it for a moment or so before answering. 'I suppose you can if you really want to. I mean, there's not much there at all, other than my clothes and my work. But if you're that desperate to come along, then fine.'

The sounds of the door opening downstairs drew both of their eyes to the closed bedroom door.

'Sherlock?' called out John's voice. 'I brought you some milk.'

Jim watched as the detective go up from the bed and opened the door before sliding through the gap and walking to the kitchen, leaving Jim alone in the room. He looked down at his clothes - which were the same he had been wearing the other night he had slept with Sherlock – and sighed deeply before following.

He walked down the corridor to the other room, in which Sherlock was standing by the table with a cup of tea in his hand, and John was looking at him expectantly.

'Well?'

'Well what?' Jim asked, making his presence known. John turned to look at him as though he had been startled, and looked him up and down.

'Are those your clothes?' he asked.

'Guess again, Johnny-boy,' replied Jim as he moved over to the kettle so he could pour himself some tea.

'So you're wearing each other's clothes now, is that it?' John asked incredulously as he turned back to Sherlock. 'And after how long?'

'Two days,' replied the detective, who had returned from his momentary lapse of motor function. 'Enough to give me ample amounts of detail into his character, and to disprove certain opinions I had made of him when we first met. James Moriarty' – the named scowled at the use of his full first name, which made Sherlock smirk – 'is a psychopath, but he is not without a heart.'

Jim smiled his most innocent smile at John, delight sparking in him at the army doctor's even more perturbed look. 'Mind telling me what I walked in on?'

'I asked Sherlock to be the best man at my wedding,' supplied John as he watched Sherlock take a sip of his tea. 'Does that not taste funny?'

'It's not so bad, actually,' shrugged the detective before waving the cup to Jim. 'Eyeball tea?'

The other man waved off the invitation with a small hand gesture. 'I'll just finish this and then we can get going.'

'Get going where?' asked John, eyes flicking between the two consultants.

'My place. I have some things to collect.'

'Are you sure this is a good idea?'

'Stop worrying, John,' Sherlock said in a vaguely irritated tone. 'I'll be fine.'

Dr Watson cast another glance between the other two men in his company before disguising his confusion with a nod and rising from his chair. 'I'd best be off, Mary will be wondering where I am.'

'Bye,' said Jim in a singsong voice that earned him a scowl from John as he walked by to leave.

After the sounds of the door downstairs closing had stopped echoing up the staircase, Jim turned to Sherlock. 'Shall we get going?'

'Yes, okay,' replied the detective as he walked alongside Jim to the bedroom so they could both get changed.


	10. Jim's Apartment

Jim stepped out of the taxi and walked into the dingy apartment block that was located in one of the rougher parts of the town. He walked up the stairs, having never been a fan of lifts and the enclosed spaces to which they confined one. For him, proximity to others was minimal; better to keep his hands clean so no one could compromise him. He almost laughed as he thought about it, mind wandering to the detective who was following behind him.

He stopped by the door to his abode on the fourth floor, and moved his hand to the doorknob, which was cool beneath his fingers, and jiggled it awhile before it twisted all the way and he was able to push the door open. The hinges creaked from disuse as he let himself and the Sherlock in, and he carelessly shoved it so it was wedged into its frame again before moving further into the premises.

'Go on then, I know you're dying to,' he said as he extended out his arms to gesture encompassingly at the room they were in. White and plain, it was filled with only the bare necessities, such as food and things needed to prepare them, as well as his laptop, which he had encrypted and was also protected by several homemade security programmes that were better and more effective than any of the ones on offer to the general public. Being a criminal mastermind, you make many connections. A perk of the job, Jim supposed.

'To do what?' asked Sherlock as he looked around, following Jim's hands.

'To deduce,' Jim explained as he dropped his hands and moved around the space. 'Tell me what you see. What this place tells you about me, how I work and function when I'm not being a criminal mastermind.'

'Can I look around?'

'Of course, but I'd be careful around the perishable foods. It appears Sebby's been here recently but hasn't bothered to clean.'

'Sebby?'

'My live-in one. Although I suppose I'll have to get rid of him now that things have changed,' Jim mused as he opened and shut the kitchen cupboards whilst frowning. He turned to see his detective studying the space, and wondered with a smirk if he would find anything. He went to his bedroom, which, apart from the bathroom, was the only space in the apartment that was blocked by walls and partitions from the main living area. He flicked through his wardrobe, making a mental note to buy more suits when he was joined by the detective.

'No peeking,' he smirked. He'd stripped off his dirty suit as soon as he'd got in the room, but had left the door open anyway.

'I'm not,' came the reply.

'No,' Jim agreed. 'You're staring.'

He turned around to face the detective, having pulled on a pair of boxer briefs and a plain white shirt. The way Sherlock's pupils visibly blew at the sight of him made him grin in satisfaction. 'Like it, do you?'

'I… I mean, it's…' Sherlock was visibly struggling to formulate words, so Jim moved forward to grasp at his long coat before pulling the other man to the edge of the bed, standing so their fronts were pressed against each other.

'It's what?' he whispered, eyes innocent.

'It's highly aesthetically pleasing,' blurted Sherlock as Jim began to pull off his scarf.

'Why thank you.' Jim moved the scarf so it was away from them, letting it drop to the floor in an elegant heap before focusing his attention on the jacket.

After that was off, he pushed gently so Sherlock lost his footing and fell onto the bed. Then, predator-like, he moved so he was on top of the other man, effectively removing his chance of escape.

'I have two things, dear. Both of which you want, but the question is: which do you want more?'

'What do you mean?' asked a baffled Sherlock.

'In the side drawer of my bedside cabinet, there are two things. A syringe containing a seven-per-cent solution of cocaine, and a bottle of lubricant. Which do you want?'

The choice was very simple, really. The reason the drugs were there was because Jim had had to hide them when Sebastian tried to force him out of his habit, and the lube was there because he was a big fan of self pleasure.

'Neither,' answered Sherlock strongly.

'You don't want to have sex or get high?'

'No,' reiterated Sherlock.

'Only lies have detail,' Jim said as he placed a deep kiss on his detective's lips before moving away. 'I'll pack a bag, and we can get going. And you can tell me all about your deductions.'

'Alright,' said Sherlock, sitting up on the bed to watch him.

Jim pulled out a few of his finer suits, as well as some casual pieces of clothing, and laid them carefully on the bed. Then, he went to the bathroom and got his cologne, toothbrush, and toothpaste, which he put into a bag before placing that too on the bed. He looked at them before putting them into an overnight bag he had found at the back of his wardrobe.

'This is it, I think.'

'Shall we be leaving?'

'Yes, we can go now. I just need to leave a note for Sebastian.'

He left his own room and walked to his desk, scribbling with a few pens to try and obtain ink before finally finding one that worked. He left a short note before grabbing his laptop and his other things.

He let Sherlock out of the apartment first, and followed him down the stairs to the front, where they hailed a cab back to Baker Street.


	11. The Game Is On

When Jim and Sherlock got back to 221B, they were at a loss for what to do. Jim had taken his bag and placed it through in Sherlock's room, putting his suits in the wardrobe, not taking up much space with his clothing. Then he took his laptop and toiletry bag out of his bag before stowing it underneath the bed and heading to the bathroom. In there, he left the small bag containing his toiletries before moving back to the front room, laptop still held onto securely.

He looked around; Sherlock was sat in his chair, still fully clothes in his jacket and scarf, curled up in a defensive ball on his seat, eyes fixated on the TV screen. Jim turned to look at it. The detective was watching Jeremy Kyle, and Jim fought to keep a straight face.

'No, no, no! Look at the mother, of course she knew he wasn't the baby's real son!' shouted Sherlock.

Jim chuckled lightly. He sat down on the sofa away from the television and turned on his laptop. From there, he typed in the several passwords required to get into the system and proxy he needed before opening one of his files and continuing to type away hurriedly at the already large wealth of information he had collected.

He could feel Sherlock's eyes stray from the TV set and land on him instead, but didn't move his own eyes from his work.

'What are you doing?'

'Collecting information,' replied Jim vaguely.

'What information is it?'

'Illegal information,' sighed Jim. 'Even though I can try and remove myself from the network, they're going to need instructions. It really does unravel if I'm gone for too long.'

He watched out of the corner of his eye as the detective got up and removed his scarf and jacket and moved to place them on the pegs by the door. The space beside him sunk as extra weight was placed upon it, and then Sherlock was looking at his screen.

'It's just numbers,' said the detective, obviously baffled.

Jim smirked. 'Numbers make the world go round, Sherlock, you of all people should know that.' he continued typing in code, nimble fingers sliding expertly over the keyboard. Sometimes he added in a character, before reverting back to the original set of digits.

Sherlock watched as Jim worked in silence for a while, focusing migrating back to the show.

Eventually, Jim decided to take a break from his work and make himself a cup of tea. 'Would you like anything?' he asked the detective politely.

'No, thanks,' Sherlock waved absentmindedly, eyes once more on the TV screen even though his view was blocked by some furniture.

Jim got up and walked to the kitchen, putting clean water into the kettle and digging out a cup that was clean. As he brewed himself his drink, he listened to more heated outbursts directed at the presenter because 'The pattern on her shirt, for god's sake, it's obvious that _she's_ the liar!'

Jim shook his head as he removed the teabag from the hot water, and added milk. He moved back to sit on the sofa, making sure he didn't spill any tea over his computer. It didn't look as though it had been moved or touched or formatted in any way, but Jim wasn't dumb. 'Have you touched this?' he asked.

'I had a look. Didn't get much from it though,' Sherlock replied. 'Don't worry. I was merely studying it. It's fascinating.'

'Considering you don't understand it, I'm glad you think so.'

Footsteps came from downstairs, travelling upwards. 'Sherlock? I've got a case for you.'

A man with short, grey hair walked into the room and stopped short upon seeing Jim. 'Moriarty, that's-'

'Yes, well done, Graham,' replied Sherlock.

'It's Greg,' replied Lestrade with a sigh. 'Will you come and help me or not?'

Sherlock turned to Jim. 'Tag along?'

'Don't mind if I do,' replied the criminal. He checked his security systems and the proxy before he turned off his machine and left it on the table.

'Hang on a second, he can't just "tag along",' insisted the detective inspector.

'I need an assistant,' offered Sherlock bluntly.

'John?'

'John's with Mary,' said Jim. 'Come on, I won't do any harm. Promise,' he said, pulling a pout.

Greg looked between the two of them, staring hard at Sherlock before putting a hand on his face and sighed. 'Fine, but he's your responsibility,' he said firmly to the detective.

'Understood, inspector,' replied Sherlock. He turned to Moriarty and grinned. 'The game is on.'


End file.
